


The Duel/Dust and Ashes

by bagelauthor



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Blood and Violence, F/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24130789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bagelauthor/pseuds/bagelauthor
Summary: After almost dying in a duel, Pierre stumbles drunk out into the streets of Moscow, weighing his options
Relationships: Fyodor "Fedya" Ivanovich Dolokhov/Elena "Hélène" Vasilyevna Kuragina
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	The Duel/Dust and Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> boring title but this is the first fanfic i’ve written in like two years so i hope i’m not too rusty!!

He was paralyzed. 

The sounds of the club had stopped completely. The music, the comfortable clink of cutlery on plates, and later, the screams. It was silent. He couldn’t move.

The gun in his hands dropped to the floor. His arms returned to his sides, slowly. There was no bullet hole. He was alive. 

He found the strength to move his neck. He looked down at Dolokhov, who was clutching his shoulder, his knuckles turning white. There was blood. Only in that moment did Pierre realize what he did with that bullet. He fell to the ground. He was crying, consoling himself with gritty mumbles, asking for God, begging for his mother.

Pierre focused on that man. The sharpest shooter in all of Moscow, on his knees, sobbing. Because of what he did to him. Pierre didn’t focus on the people around him. The audience standing around him melded into one entity, watching, waiting for something interesting to happen. 

The volume in the bar rose again. People were brushing off their coats, adjusting their glasses. Someone gently took Dolokhov away, dabbing a cloth at his shoulder. The fun was over. A voice announced Pierre the winner of the duel. 

“Winner?” He looked for the voice, but found no one. 

He looked to his wife, hoping for comfort in the only familiar face around. His wife, beautiful, dangerous, the most sought after woman in all of Russia, her eyes locked on Pierre. She was afraid. The sharpest aim around had a gun pointed at him, and missed. Her husband was alive. Her cold eyes thawed, and the look of terror melted into one of scorn. Her husband was still alive. 

“You are a fool.”

And with those words, his wife walked over to where Dolokhov was being led, pressing her cool palm to his burning forehead, consoling the man she loved more than him. 

A pressure on his shoulder - Anatole. A familiar glint in his eyes stared back at Pierre as he jumped from the touch. He seemed gentler tonight. Much older and wiser than he seemed an hour ago. 

“Come on old man, let’s get you home.”

This man had never been kind, or true. He only cared for wine and women - and now he cares about the fate of someone this miserable? The loneliest man he knew, yet he was the one still standing. But he was still fragile. And Anatole wanted to help him home.

Pierre’s head still buzzed with thoughts. Memories. The blood. Andre.

“...In a moment.”

Anatole smiled. He was trying to be kind, but Pierre never trusted that smile. “Sleep it off, and be happy. We live to love another day.” 

Pierre didn’t respond. It couldn’t have been true, either way. Pierre doesn’t love. He can’t. He wasn’t created that way. 

He walked out to the door of the club, stumbling onto the streets of Moscow at midnight. Quiet. Cold. Where is he supposed to go now? Not home. 

The sun began to creep over the horizon. It warmed his skin. A gentle, red glow.

Blood. 

He kept moving.

Thoughts raced endlessly in his head, bouncing off the walls, not resolving in anything. He shot him. And for what? He didn’t mean it. He was furious. Fedya was touching his wife, grabbing her in places, only he should ever be permitted to hold. And he was holding her. And the worst part about all of this was that there was emotion there. He could see it. It wasn’t just lust. He wanted her. He loved her. 

And he didn’t want to know if she loved him back. 

He could have died. In fact, he could have sworn to the heavens he felt metal enter his skin. But it didn’t hurt. There was an ache in his chest, a begging to be killed, but his body was at rest. He could have died, but Fedya missed. The man with the reputation, an aim of gold, missed. 

And Pierre wanted to die. 

He was waiting for that bullet. With open arms, he waited for the spark of hurt to travel through his body. He wanted to see the blood. He wanted to die.

But he didn’t. He lived. He is alive.

And he got angry. He wanted to die. He started screaming. For something, someone, any force, human or biblical, natural or forced, to kill him. He was begging the earth to kill him. He wanted to die. Please, God, he wanted to die. He wanted to be done with this life. Start anew. He wanted to feel the pain. 

He fell to his knees, pounding the snow, knocking on the gates of hell. Screaming. Begging for something to fix him. He didn’t care.

And he started crying. The screams turned into choked sobs, scratchy, barely able to leave his throat. He grabbed fistfuls of snow, wishing they would comfort him. The tears stung his eyes, making idents in the snow as they fell. 

He didn’t care. So why was he crying? Why was he screaming? Was he shaking from the cold, or the anger? Or was he shaking from the pain of his thoughts?

Did he miss something? He read and read every day of his life, searching for answers. Something to fix him. When he couldn’t find anything, he turned to death as the only option, rather than living the same day over again, reading, drinking, running, escaping, wishing for something knew. 

But did he come across the wrong answer? 

Death isn’t the solution.

He didn’t know what the answer was, but he knew living was. 

Happiness was within him the whole time.

He didn’t know where. He’d have to look for it. 

And as he kneeled in the snow, sniffling, still shaking, he realized something. 

He didn’t want to die. He just wanted to start living.

He stared at the snow. When he found the ability to stand, he faced the morning sun, free from his shadow. And it was bright, and warm. Like a love letter. He wanted to fly towards it, to be warmer. Even happier. 

But he knew he’d have to work for his happiness.

He breathed deep, for the first time in a while. 

He began to walk home. 

He hoped things would be better today.


End file.
